


Souvenirs

by geekmama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a wedding, <i>Greg Lestrade was chatting up a chic, dark-haired young woman who had been introduced as one of Sherlock’s French cousins.</i> Now, for their third anniversary, Sherlock and Molly are on holiday in France and visiting that same cousin, combining pleasure, a "trifling" business for Mycroft, and a number of surprises, both happy and sinister.</p><p> </p><p>Set two years after <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7440745">Perfect</a></i> in the <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/439375">Honorable Intentions</a></i> universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paris Light

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Children" prompt, and any errors are my own, British, French, or otherwise.
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Light pollution was a rather horrid term to apply to the wonder that was Paris at night. Stars were still strewn across the velvet sky, after all, and the city spread below rivaled them in beauty, sparkling in the clear, cool autumn air. Only one thing was lacking to make the moment perfect… and then Molly heard Sherlock stepping out onto the balcony to stand beside her, and he took her hand in his larger, warmer one.

“Do you like it?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“Oh, yes! But I’m still trying to make sense of it.” She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. “I knew your family had money, but… _this?_ ” She gave a somewhat incredulous nod and gesture that took in the balcony with its magnificent view and the mansion behind.

He shrugged. “This is nothing to do with the Holmes side. My mother’s cousin just had the sense to marry well. It’s a nice place though, you have to admit.”

“ _Very_ nice. Bordering on amazing. And you came here to visit every summer?”

“Until I was fifteen or so. Celeste and Mummy were cousins _and_ school chums. Thick as thieves right into uni. Naturally the relationship remained intact, even after Celeste married Honoré and moved over here.”

Molly nodded. “Did Mycroft come, too?”

“When I was quite young, yes, but happily I didn’t see much of him or the sons of the family -- _the young princes,_ Marc and Henri. They were all around the same age. And then--” His voice grew suddenly louder-- “I’d be stuck here with Dani, the annoying brat.”

“ _Bah!_ Horrible as always, _cousine!_ ” came a laughing, feminine, and only lightly French-accented voice.

Turning, Sherlock said, “Oh, look. The annoying brat herself. ”

Molly gave him a poke with her elbow, then smiled and held out her hands as Dani came toward them.

The beautiful young woman took Molly’s hands, but drew her into a quick embrace. “Ah! It has been too long!”

“Three years since the wedding. It’s so good to finally see you again!“

“Such a beautiful bride you made,” Dani said with a sigh. “And you, at least, have not wasted your time. I wish you had brought your darling Quinn with you. Maman would have been in heaven to have a small boy running about the house again! Marc and I have failed her completely, I’m afraid, and Henri only has daughters, which, although they are very sweet, are not at all the same.”

“Really?” Sherlock said, wryly. “When did you discover--”

“ _Tais-toi, imbécile!”_ Dani laughed. She said to Molly, “But this is a holiday to celebrate your anniversary, no? Quinn’s presence might not have been entirely convenient.”

“Perceptive as always,” Sherlock murmured.

But Molly said, “I wish we could have brought him. He’s such a good little boy! But there were other factors. And he’ll be fine with his grandparents. He’s used to staying with them. Though we’ve never left him for so long before. Not _both_ of us.”

She was trying, unsuccessfully, to convince herself, too, and Dani wrinkled her nose in sympathy.

But Sherlock only rolled his eyes. “Molly, it’s a _week_ , and my mother has so many outings planned he’ll barely notice we’re gone! And then there’s Mycroft’s little business in Divonne-les-Bains. Not really the thing for a two-year-old.”

Dani cocked her head. “Business? What sort of business?”

“Mmm. I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Sherlock said, pensively. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not!” Dani said. “ _Brat!_ ”

“Takes one to know one, _ma cousine_.”

And Molly said, “Be quiet, both of you! Brats, indeed!” But she was having a difficult time keeping a straight face. It was obvious the two had a fond history, in spite of Dani being several years younger than Sherlock. It was an unusual thing for her much loved but somewhat socially challenged husband, and it made her very happy.

Changing the subject entirely Molly said, “Dani, do you remember Greg Lestrade? The detective inspector, Sherlock’s friend. From our wedding?”

Dani’s roguish smile faltered, just a trifle. “Lestrade! I… yes, of course,”

Molly, a bit surprised at this guarded reaction, paused a beat before saying, “Well, he sends greetings -- asked me particularly to tell you. It seems he remembers you _quite_ well.”

Dani said, “Does he? I have to admit… I remember him quite well, too.” Dani suddenly seemed to notice Sherlock’s sharp eye upon her and stiffened perceptibly.

But the awkward moment evaporated as Cousin Celeste bustled out to join them on the balcony. “There you all are! Danae, my love, I didn’t realize you were home. Dinner's nearly ready, you had better go and change. You can join us in the salon for drinks. Marc’s just arrived and is pouring out champagne. And he demands to see his _petit cousine Guillaume_ immediately!”

Sherlock scowled slightly at this, and Molly and Dani exchanged grins.

Cousin Celeste’s own eyes were brimful of laughter, too, as she said, “Shall we go in?”

 

**o-o-o**

 

In spite of Sherlock’s initial pretense of annoyance, the evening had gone exceptionally well, and as they prepared for bed in the luxurious guest suite they’d been alloted, Molly said, “I’m so glad we’ve come here to stay, at least for a couple of nights. Your cousins are lovely people!”

“Yes. Even Marc was more tolerable than I remembered,” Sherlock conceded. “Not to mention shorter.” He came over to stand behind her, watching in the vanity mirror as she brushed her hair.

“ _Petit Guillaume!_ ” Molly chuckled.

“Hmm. I’d watch the teasing, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise,” he said, bending to kiss her neck. “Love bites can be so difficult to cover.”

“Ah, but two can play at that game,” she said, and turned to give him a quick kiss on his lips. Then, resuming her brushing as he straightened, she said, “We must invite Dani to come stay with us in Baker Street.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Really?” His eyes belied the complaining tone. “Here, let me have the brush.”

She gave it to him, pouting. “Am I doing it wrong, again?”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes, savoring his ministrations for long silent moments. But finally she said, “Greg would be pleased if she came to visit.”

“Lestrade? And is that an object with me? To please him?”

“Well, he’s still your source of almost any case rating more than a six.”

“I don’t believe I need to bribe him with Dani to continue to be of value to him, however.”

“He’s your friend. And he likes her! And I believe she likes him. Did you think her reaction to his message a little odd?”

“Obviously.”

“I wonder… do you think they’ve kept in touch?”

“I have no idea. But I’m not really interested in either of them at the moment.” He set the brush on the table. “Up, Mrs. Holmes. Time for bed.”

Molly rose and stepped out from behind the vanity, into his embrace. “I _am_ rather tired, after traveling all day, and then that lovely dinner.”

“Are you? How unfortunate,” he said, and kissed her.

It was a good kiss. Very good. And presently Molly had to acknowledge she wasn’t really _that_ tired. No… not really... too tired... _at_ _all_.

 

**o-o-o**

 

The early morning sunlight was just filtering through the lace curtains over the window when Sherlock slipped from the bed, taking care not to disturb his wife. She was still deeply asleep, and justly so. An irrepressible smile hovered on his lips as flashes of the more intense moments of the previous night filtered through his brain. It was good that this guest suite was located some distance from the residents’ bedrooms. He and Molly were used to quiet lovemaking, Quinn being a notoriously light sleeper, and ordinarily they didn’t mind: at times, the constraint added a delightfully heightened tension to the denouement. But freed from constraint, it was surprisingly easy to slip into the old ways. And of course, it was their anniversary. Special efforts had been called for.

He sighed as his body reacted to its current addiction. Perhaps he should wake her after all...

But no. Not yet, at least. He was on a mission.

He popped into the en suite bathroom (the clawfoot tub looked long and deep enough to easily hold two, and might bear investigation later), presently emerging attired in his blue silk dressing gown. Molly hadn’t moved even the fraction of an inch, and hopefully would not until he returned.

It had been the sound of Dani’s Peugeot starting up that had roused Sherlock from his well-earned slumber. She’d told them at dinner that she’d be off early to run some errands before returning for Molly’s first visit to Versailles. Now it was the work of moments to take advantage of her absence.

And to hack into her laptop, and email. Really, it was ridiculous how lax most people were about data security. He’d be quite justified in giving her a stern lecture on the subject, which should deflect some of her wrath over the invasion of privacy. Although… he stopped scrolling through her inbox and did a one word search.

_Lestrade_

And almost gave a bark of laughter at the result.

He didn’t open any of the emails, just glanced over the subject lines and short snippets of text.

Then, satisfied, he carefully returned the laptop to the state in which he'd found it, took the mobile from the pocket of his dressing gown, and shot off two text messages.

There would be no wrath to deflect. He was almost certain of it.


	2. Divonne-les-Bains

“Do you remember the last time we were in this garden together?” Dani asked Sherlock as the three of them strolled along a tree-lined path. It was mid-afternoon and they had already toured the palace of Versailles and explored the nearer, more open parterre gardens.

“I do,” said Sherlock, warily, “though I was hoping you’d forgotten.”

“One does not.”

“All right,” said Molly, trying to sound severe. “What happened?”

“I was led astray,” Dani said plaintively. “He was bored, you see.”

“Oh, good lord. I can only imagine. Were you arrested?”

Sherlock scoffed, “She was six, and I was nine. What do you think?”

Dani chuckled. “We slipped away from the tour of the palace to play at pirates in these gardens. By the time we were found, my mother was beside herself, and the day was quite ruined.”

“It wasn’t!” Sherlock objected. “You have to admit you enjoyed yourself for those couple of hours.”

“Well, possibly. But the disgrace! I was a very well-behaved little girl as a rule and as punishment we were sent to our rooms without supper. Such a thing had never before happened to me -- and there was to be chocolate cake, too. I cried and cried.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, disgusted. “You were certainly more tedious than usual that night. Until I threatened to leave.”

Molly’s lips quivered. “You snuck in to see her?”

“Well, I had to, didn’t I? Since it was partly my fault.”

“ _All_ your fault,” Dani said, firmly.

“You didn’t _have_ to come out to the gardens with me.”

“Ha!” Dani turned to Molly. “Can you imagine withstanding him when he is aflame with boredom and mischief?”’

“No,” said Molly.

“And I was six! And most sheltered, I assure you.”

“I was sheltered, too,” Sherlock asserted.

“ _You_ were… oh…. _oh_...”

“ _Sherlock_?” Molly said, very bland, and then gave a snort of suppressed laughter.

“This is hardly fair,” Sherlock complained, but then he stopped walking, forcing the ladies to do so, and turned to face them. “But since you seem to have held that against me all these years -- even though I put up with your weeping _and_ shared the bread and cheese Mycroft had brought me on the sly--”

“So you _didn’t_ go hungry!” Molly smiled.

Dani said, “No. And Marc brought me a piece of the chocolate cake, too -- which _I_ shared with _you!_ ” She glared at her cousin.

“Did I deny it?” he asked, his eyes wide and innocent. “But in any case, I’m prepared to make it up to you.”

Dani looked suspicious. “In what way?”

“By inviting you to come along to Divonne-les-Bains with us.”

Dani gaped.

Molly clapped her hands. “Oh, yes! Do come!”

“On your anniversary? I could not!”

“On _Mycroft’s business_ ,” Sherlock said, with great patience. “You could be helpful, being so very… um… French.”

Dani still looked suspicious. “You speak French nearly as well as I, _cousine_.”

“Yes, but there’s more to dealing with an elderly former member of _La Résistance_ than that.”

“You said you couldn’t tell me anything about it!”

“I’ve changed my mind. But you can’t tell anyone else, of course. Then I _would_ have to kill you. And them.”

Dani hesitated, but Molly did not. “Oh, do come with us! I’m sure we can reserve another room, and Divonne-les-Bains is supposed to be a charming resort town. We could shop, and go to the casino, and, oh, all sorts of things. Hiking, boating--”

“--and attend to _Mycroft’s business_ ,” Dani said, not altogether sanguine. “I know what Mycroft is, _cousine._ ”

“A minor government official?”

Dani rolled her eyes.

Molly said, “We’ve been assured it’s a simple task. _Trifling_. Would he have sent me along, otherwise?”

“I think you underrate yourself,” said Dani, drily. “You know, Mycroft visited us last year and he told me some of the things you’ve done to help his little brother.” She raised a brow at Sherlock, but he only looked proudly at his wife.

Who was blushing. “I… um… sometimes--”

“--he needs assistance,” said Dani. She eyed Sherlock. “A _First Mate_ , if you will.”

“Precisely,” said Sherlock. “Though you’ll have to be Second Mate this time since Molly’s along. _Savvy?_ ”

Dani laughed. “Well, I still don’t understand it, but if you truly want me to come--”

“We do!” Molly said, happily.

“Then I accept your kind offer. But tell me, what is it all about?”

“Let’s go over here.” Sherlock led them to a convenient alcove, shaded by high greenery and equipped with a marble bench. They all sat down, Dani in the middle, and Sherlock explained the situation. “My mother and father went to Divonne-les-Bains on holiday a number of times, and became friends with the owners of Les Clés, the particular resort they favored. The husband died some twenty years ago, but Madame Fortier yet lives, though she’s now over ninety. Apparently at some point Madame learned of Mycroft’s minor position in government, because recently Mummy received a letter from her, asking that she have him arrange for the receipt of the Vexin Hours, an illuminated manuscript that was thought to have been destroyed after the war. It’s extremely valuable, but not just because of its antiquity. Somehow it provided the basis for a code, used from 1940 to 1945 by the Résistance, and that code was never broken. You can imagine my brother’s desire to secure the book--if it actually exists. Mycroft has his doubts. Madame may not be of sound mind and veracity. But if she is, why give the book to us, rather than her own people? Our task is to discover these things.”

“And bring away the book?” Dani said.

“If possible, yes. Or, if it proves a wild goose chase, we simply enjoy a few days’ holiday at government expense.”

“It does sound quite simple.”

“Precisely!” Molly said, confidently.

“Trifling, and quite without risk,” Sherlock agreed. “To use Mycroft’s rather outmoded expression, we’ll be _safe as houses_.”

 

**o-o-o**

 

“Sherlock, you’re not leading my Danae into trouble again, are you?” Cousin Celeste demanded. She and her husband had seemed amenable to Dani’s prospective holiday when the subject had been broached at dinner, but now that her daughter and Molly had excused themselves to change into evening attire -- they were to attend a late performance at the Folies Bergère, which Sherlock still owed his wife from the Hen Night affair -- Celeste cornered Sherlock with a steely look in her eye. “She’s been through enough, these last three years, what with the divorce from that snake and having to sell her home and move back in here with us. If you do something to upset her, I’ll have your hide, and don’t think I won’t!”

Sherlock lifted his brows, but made haste to reassure. “Nooo, everything will be fine! We’re just going on holiday. Why, you’ve been to Divonne-les-Bains yourself, you know how lovely it is.”

Her eyes narrowed. “It’s not some risky business of Mycroft’s?”

Sherlock almost choked, but managed, “Would Molly be going in that case?”

“Hmm. Well. Perhaps not. But you will promise me…”

“What? To keep Dani safe? Celeste, she’s thirty-five. She’s quite capable of keeping herself safe. But if it will make you happy, then yes. I shall do my utmost to return her to you intact.

At least he didn’t have to lie about _everything_.

 

**o-o-o**

 

They were on the road by nine, fortified by an excellent breakfast and copious amounts of strong coffee. It had been a late evening at the Folies Bergère, and Molly was still floating on a dreamlike cloud, visions of pretty dancers in her head, and snatches of melody on her lips.

“ _So_ much better than BoyToys!” she’d exclaimed happily the previous night, just before falling into bed with him on their return from the celebrated venue. The subsequent interlude (which could almost be termed _make-up sex_ ) had been truly outstanding, and something of a spur toward misbehavior -- at least that of the more innocuous variety.

Dani had thoroughly enjoyed the performance as well, and, like Molly, was content to stare dreamily out the window and let Sherlock drive the entire distance without argument, which was a relief. Molly liked to drive, but she had only had her license a year and was still at that tentative, overly cautious stage. Dani, on the other end of the scale, had been licensed since her teens and assumed (erroneously) that she was quite the expert. Either of them behind the wheel would have constituted a mild but protracted form of torture, instead of which he’d been able to enjoy the beautiful French landscape for five and a half hours. He permitted only two stops, once for the loo, once for a quick lunch, and they were approaching the Swiss border and the pretty town of Divonne-les-Bains in time for tea.

Les Clés was a small, old fashioned resort, yet notable both for its excellent location on the shores of Lac de Divonne and for its meticulously maintained landscape, bright beds of flowers with velvet swathes of lawn between and pine trees interspersed in groups throughout. They drove down the gravel drive, passing a dozen neat cabins, each built steps from the lake, and finally pulled in by the main house, a rambling Chalet style affair, where the office and a tea room were located, according to the signage.

“Someone loves to garden!” Molly said in wonder. “Your mother was right: what a delightful place!”

“Have a walk down to the lake,” Sherlock suggested to the ladies as they all emerged from the car, everyone rather stiff from the long drive. “I’ll register and find out when we can meet with Madame Fortier.”

“Ah, _cher Guillaume_ , your manners are so much improved,” Dani said, stretching. “It must be the influence of a good woman.”

Molly laughed and blew a kiss toward Sherlock before taking Dani’s arm. Sherlock watched them as they meandered toward the lake, a smile on his lips, and it still hovered there a minute later when he walked into the foyer of the house, which served as the resort’s lobby, giving a good first impression to the middle-aged couple standing behind the front desk. The woman, prim and neatly dressed, wore a nametag that read _Mme Fougère, directeur_ ; the man was in workman’s clothing, and was leaning on the counter with a casual air and a mug of tea. Husband and wife, probably had been working for Madame Fortier for years as manager and caretaker respectively.

“Good afternoon,” said Sherlock in his best French. “I’m here to meet with Madame Fortier, and I have cabins reserved as well. Holmes is the name.”

“Holmes!” said the man, straightening. “You are Vernet’s son, Mycroft?”

Sherlock managed not to alter his friendly expression. “No, but Mycroft sent me. I’m his brother, Sherlock.”

The couple looked strangely startled and exchanged a speaking look. It was apparent to Sherlock that his fame had gone before him, and not in a good way. His smile faded abruptly at the unwelcome thought that his _parents_ must have--

But Madame Fougère said, quickly, “I beg your pardon! It is just that…oh, a long time ago... your mother and father’s visit to Les Clés was cut short. You had some accident, no? It has been more than a decade, yet I remember. They flew back to England immediately, and it was weeks before Madame heard from your mother, that all was well. But of course one can see that you are now in excellent health.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly ,staring for a moment, relieved, and yet… how very awkward. He, too, remembered the “accident”, and its repercussions. Mycroft’s officious contempt. His parents’ grief and concern. His second stint in rehab. All down to Greg Lestrade. Sherlock had been furious, but Lestrade had ignored this, even visited him in rehab several times. And, on Sherlock’s release, was there with work. _The_ work. And now...

“Well, the past is past, _hein?_ ” said Monsieur Fougère, and gave a very gallic shrug.

“Hmm.” Sherlock said noncommittally. True, and yet… not, in certain ways. ”Well, moving on. Madame Fortier: will she be available any time soon. I have some business to discuss with her.”   

Madame Fougère nodded. “Yes, she should be able to see you in an hour or so. She is of advanced years, you understand, and is resting just now, as is her habit at this time of day, but she will take a late tea in the salon and I suggest you join her. I… we… Fougère and I know something of this business, you see? She will wish to meet with you as soon as possible.”

 

**o-o-o**

 

Adele Fortier did want to meet with this Sherlock Holmes as soon as possible. She remembered very well the upheaval the boy had caused with his profligate ways so many years ago. Lilian Holmes had not meant to say anything, but had been almost beside herself with worry, and Adele had guessed what the distraught mother had left unsaid. Offering sympathy -- as a friend, for Lilian and Vernet had holidayed at Les Clés for a number of years and the relationship between the couple and the hotelier had blossomed accordingly -- the story had come tumbling out. Lilian had almost immediately regretted her candor, but Adele had assured her it would go no further, and she had kept her word. But, in spite of several comparatively uneventful visits to Les Clés in more recent years, and Lilian’s blithe assurances that her youngest son had recovered and was thriving, Adele’s resentment on behalf of her friend had diminished very little. But then, she never had been a forgiving woman.

She was now seated at her favorite table in the corner of her tea room, and she fixed a skeptical eye on this unsatisfactory substitute Holmes as he walked in the door. Tall but too thin; dressed with propriety, but sporting ridiculous dark curls that made him look younger than he actually must be; face pale and coldly patrician both in structure and expression: the essence of condescension. And then he stepped aside, and Adele felt herself stiffen at the charm of the crooked smile that touched his lips as he allowed two women to enter. The taller of them was sleek, lithe, and chic in a way that was very French, and she favored Holmes with a small, teasing smirk. The other was obviously English -- her strange choice of clothing made it obvious -- but it was this one that drew a look of real warmth from the man, a look that was reflected back to him with honest affection.

What was this?

She was still frowning as the three approached the table, though it was Holmes who spoke first.

“Madame Fortier?” he said, presenting an ingratiating smile. Apparently sensing her hostility, his brows twitched briefly together, but she deigned to nod and he went on. “I am Sherlock Holmes, here on behalf of my brother Mycroft, to whom you referred in your letter to my mother. And this is my wife, Dr. Molly Holmes, and my cousin, Mme Danae Laurent.”

Adele narrowed her eyes, further annoyed by the man’s virtually perfect French. He had an ear for the language, seemingly, an unusual thing in an Englishman, in her experience. She said, coldly, “I hope my business with… with _you_ … has not been shared with the whole world. I had assumed _Mycroft_ would be able to meet privately with me.”

“Mycroft sent his regrets, and Molly and I as his representatives. I thought it well to include my cousin since she is both very French and very discreet. However, if you prefer, both ladies will--”

“No, no!” said Adele impatiently. “All of you sit down. I expect you’ve already told her about the book. _Fougère!_ ” Her nosy henchman was peeking in at the door. “Tell your wife to bring tea for four, and a plate of pastries. Don’t forget the madeleines.” Fougère lumbered off and the three young people sat down, all looking a bit disconcerted, even this Sherlock, though he was better at hiding it. It was very well. She said to them, “I suppose you have questions?”

Sherlock said, “Perhaps we should… er… cut to the chase--”

“I dislike modern idiom,” said Adele. Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit and she almost smiled. Almost. “Speak plainly, please.”

The young man virtually glared, and no doubt there were cutting words on his lips, but he mastered himself and said, “Why do you wish to give the book to us, rather than your own people?”

“A very good question.” Adele allowed herself a very small smile. “I have always had a great respect for the British, since I was very young, during the war. I joined _La Résistance_ at fifteen, in 1940, and the British men that I met at times during the next five years were honorable, and courageous. My husband was one, from Yorkshire, and he was the best man I have ever known. We built Les Clés together, he and I. When he was dying he asked that I consider giving the Vexin Hours to the British when the time came. He felt they would put it to better use than those in power here in France.”

“It is, however, worth a great deal of money. Yet you would give it over, free of any cost?”

“I would. The church will get this property when I am gone, and there are a few other things of value that will go to my grandson. But the book I want in the hands of those who will appreciate its value both as an heirloom and as a tool. I have reason to believe that your brother is the man to ensure this comes to pass.”

Sherlock nodded, thoughtfully, and his wife, who had followed along with some difficulty, said, in the French of a schoolgirl, “This is most generous of you!”

Adele shrugged. “What good will any of it do me when I am gone from this world? But the book might do a great deal of good in the right hands.”

“You have kept it hidden all these years?” Danae Laurent asked. “Since the war?”

Adele nodded. “Safely hidden. My dear husband and I saw it as a continuation of the responsibilities we had assumed as members of _La Résistance_.”

And Danae smiled. “I wish I could have seen you then. What a time in which to grow up!”

“A terrible time, in many ways. A dangerous time.” She thought back on it with some reluctance. “So many lost. But fortune smiled on me, at least, and after the war  I was happy with my husband for many years.” Something wistful came into the girl’s expression, and Adele considered her. “You are not married, Mme Laurent?”

“Not now,” she said, simply.

Sherlock, obviously feeling they’d strayed too far off topic, asked, “When can we see the book?”

But at this point, Marie Fougère came bustling into the room with the tea tray and for the next few minutes they were all kept busy with the much appreciated brew and pastries. Adele consumed several madeleines with great pleasure, and told the young people, “My dear husband taught the Fougères to make tea in the way of the English.”

“ _C'était excellent_ ,” Dr. Holmes said carefully.

Adele waved a dismissive hand. “We will now speak in English, if you please, a language with which I am quite familiar.”

“So in sticking to French you were merely trying to put us on the back foot,” Sherlock said, deceptively sweet.

“M. Holmes, I told you that I dislike idiom,” Adele returned, equally sweet, “regardless of its accuracy.”

Dr. Holmes grinned, and Danae chuckled. Sherlock raised a brow and said, “Yes. Well. The book?”   

Adele said, “It is not here at Les Clés. I have two appointments scheduled for tomorrow that I cannot break, but the day after we will go to retrieve it. You must be patient. Enjoy Les Clés, and the many diversions to be found in Divonne-les-Bains. All will be well. You shall all enjoy dinner with me this evening.”

“Will we?” Sherlock said, rather grimly.

But his wife said, “Of course, Madame! We would be honored!”

“Eight o’clock,” Adele told them. “I don’t believe it is civilized to eat before that hour. But who is this?” She frowned.

A man in a well-worn suit had just walked into the room, middle-aged, with eyes that looked tired, perhaps worried, but capable of kindness, and short hair of a grizzled grey.

The reactions of the three young people as they turned to look at the newcomer were most interesting. Dr. Holmes gave a gasp and looked sharply at her husband who seemed unsurprised and almost devilishly gleeful. But Sherlock’s cousin Danae rose unsteadily from her chair.

The man’s swift scrutiny of their group halted suddenly as he took in the presence of Mme Laurent. “Dani! What are you… _what’s going on?_ ”

But Danae moved toward him, her hands held out, and he caught and enfolded them in his own. A smile both tremulous and tender curved her lips and she breathed one word: “ _Lestrade!_ ”  


End file.
